APH Yuri Week 2015
by EvanescingSky
Summary: A series of short pieces done for APH Yuri Week in honor of Femslash February on tumblr.
1. Balance & Opposites

To brush your fingers over the surface of them was to see them as such opposites. Darkness and light, sun and rain, deafening noise and crushing silence, good, and bad. Red and blue.

To whom each role belonged depended on whom you asked.

There was one, unflinching in her resolve, unshakable in her ideology, powerful, strong, stubborn and terrifyingly beautiful.

But which one was it?

To hold them and their relationship in your hand was to hold something ever turning, impossible to see only from one side the more you understood it. It was a shifting, changing thing, so multifaceted it was more like a kaleidoscope than a picture. You would strain your eyes, trying to hold a single piece of it in your vision long enough to make sense of it, but it would never remain; just before you were sure you had grasped the image, it would flicker, shift, fall away and be replaced with something else, or turn to some new angle you had never before considered. To stare too long was to be consumed.

They had been consumed already.

Eaten up by the layers, cut away by the edges, wrung dry by the weight.  
Their relationship was the blaze of a hot summer sun baking down on the Arizona plain, hardening the earth until it cracked and split like an open sore, draining energy from everything beneath it and making all those beneath its fearsome glare take shelter.

And they were dying.

Only they didn't realize it. It seemed to them they were invincible to the heat of the sun; already having succumb to delirium from the heat, they staggered around waving weapons and insults, shouting at invisible men and as like to hit themselves as each other with their daggers.

It had begun as a soft spring morning. Gentle, quiet, misty. It had begun with America's youth and Russia's curiosity. It had opened with quiet giggling and shared smiles and a great big dismissal of Europe's rejection. Lost in the beauty of the morning and the growing warmth, they never saw the sudden turn ahead.

It was crippling.

Knocking them both onto their knees, gasping for breath, frantically piecing together the knowledge that the other had dealt the blow. They never saw the treachery from inside, until it was plastered on newspaper titles and across television screens. Russia bore hers in silence, with clenched teeth and nails digging into her palms, because no one spoke of the betrayals of Soviet politicians. At least, not when those betrayals were against the Soviet people themselves. America bore hers publically, listening to everyone's analysis of it with open beer cans on the back porch at twelve, wondering why she hadn't seen it coming.

But they bore up. And this—to dig your fingers into the tendons and muscle and sinew of them, was to understand they were not at all separate. They were merely two sides of the same coin, cast down centuries apart, but no more different than anything else in this world.

The appearance of difference came from the different shades of them, the masks they wore to the world. And through this, the symbiotic relationship which both drove and destroyed them. Even as their throats burned and their minds grew foggy, they clambered for more.

_Pharmekon._

They strove towards the same ideal—a utopia for their people. To each, they even called out to it with the same voice, with the same idealistic drive! Blindness, they blinded themselves, refusing anymore to see the similarities between them. They covered themselves in thick layering and secrets, masters of smoke and mirrors, until they so disguised their cores the similarities seemed to fade, and they felt safe.

_I'm not like her. She will lead her people down a road to destruction. She doesn't care about those that get in her way; she only wants to raise herself up. She's bull-headed. She's impulsive. She's naïve. But I—I've learned from my experience. I will save my people and I will protect the ones I love from her ambition._

Grasping the sink, looking into the mirror, repeating the words. But their arms grow shaky and their voices grow weak and they question the meaning of the words. What qualifies destruction? Can you quantify ambition, and is it truly bad? What's "I" and is it really me? They start to ask questions rather than make statements and voices crack, followed by mirrors, and bloodied hands scramble for tissues.

It drives a woman mad.

Mad, mad, mad. Mad like the pigs, mad like the dogs. Mad like the Dems, mad like the Reds. Screaming yourself hoarse doesn't make her stop, she's still going, her lips still moving, the hateful sound of her voice still filling your ears until you cover them and howl. If you hit her again, it'll be quiet in the room. If you hit her again, it'll be quiet it in your head. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Why isn't it quiet? One more time.

Split knuckles are a prize, they think. A badge, a medal, a gold star. To say "Look how strong I am. Look how well I fight for my country. See! I am not afraid. I will never be afraid."

"I am not afraid!" she shouts. "I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anything!"

But she won't look in the mirror anymore. They are little girls. Soft, tender little girls and they cry out in agony, because they are so alone.

"No one said it would be like this," they gasp in choked whispers, clutching at their shins in the night, knees rammed up against their chests. "No one said—no one warned me. Why? Why?"

Their allies begin to fall away, because the drug isn't to them like it is to the superpowers. They only get the secondhand smoke, where Russia and America breathe deep, sucking the poison into their lungs and stabbing each other with cocky grins.

"See, it doesn't affect me. Have another drag. See if you can take as many as I can." Choking, gasping, wheezing behind an elbow. "See how easy I breathe? Bet you can't take another."

They stumble into their graves, bellowing, "Look how much dirt I have covering me! I have more than you! I dare you to put another shovelful on!"

They were beautiful girls.

They were clever and kind and determined. They were quick learners and hard workers and good people. Their faces were dewy and awed, watching the beauty of the world. And in turn, the world destroyed them.

Or did they destroy each other? Did the world let them destroy each other? Was there anyone to blame but themselves? Was it fate, that pitted them against each other? Was it a cosmic entity that had woven them together and then ripped them apart and used them to beach each other? They wondered.

The game began to run faster, the clock began to tick and dominos to fall. They cast down their final hands and victory was in her grasp. Her palms sweaty, her tongue pinched between her teeth, her eyes manic, America lunged for the prize she had hungered for for so long.

At last, Russia's knees buckled, Atlas' feet on her shoulders driving her into the dirt when she could no longer stand. There was a second of triumph and America's heart turned to horror. It was her voice that screamed when the dust clouded up around Russia's body.

If Russia was dead, was she dead too? Who was she, if not the opposition to the USSR? What use was a coin with only one face? If she could not define herself by the twin superpower—the good, the cowboy, the lone ranger, the hero—then how? It was as though, by falling, Russia had taken America too—she had reached inside and torn out something vital, to spite America for winning.

"If I will lose, then so will you."

Grabbing her ankles, dragging her beneath the surface of the icy waters, while America kicked and screamed and swore, but nothing could dislodge the vice around her legs.

How do you take something that is a part of someone? To commit such an act of violation, to slip your hand beneath their ribcage and wriggle free what you want, you have to be chest-to-chest with them. Sharing their breath, hearing them swallow, smelling their sweat. It's impossible to take without being so close.

America was cheated. She was cheated and she would destroy the world in her fury, but in the end, she could only destroy herself. In a mushroom cloud, in a burst of fire, in a rain of bullets; she had come into this world like a shooting star and she would leave it like a dying one, taking out everything around her as she went and leaving a deadly emptiness where she had been.

Or so it was expected.

What is a soldier who has no enemies left to kill? What does he do when the war is won, the game over, the armistice signed? What does he do, when he has come to know nothing but the fight? He might become a baker, or a tailor. He might become a businessman, or a bum. To everything America reached out and her fingers closed on smoke.

She was so young, a spirited mare driven to insanity by her jockey. Taught to think against the Soviets, taught to fight against the Soviets, taught to live and breathe democracy and take up every arm against the possibility of communist expansion. And when that was all over, and they had trained the perfect Soviet-fighting machine…how were they to reprogram her? They didn't. They left her to do it herself and how could she?

She couldn't find the buttons, couldn't read the programs, couldn't begin to fathom her own inner workings. How does a manmade device fix itself?  
But there was someone who did know her. Who understood her better than anyone could, even her own family. Who understood the paranoia, the fear, the self-doubt, the inexplicable desire to weep looking up at the moon in the late night hours when the paperwork was finally done for the day and the silence of the house was suddenly overwhelming.

Amelia and Anya put each other back together with hesitant touches and shaking hands, in silence. Anya understood before Amelia, what was needed to make things right in them again. She made herself available, and coaxed Amelia to the conclusion she had to reach.

Never words. They were an unwelcome and unnecessary intrusion into their quiet work. It took time. It calloused their fingers with toughened, pliable skin. To move with such caution, to treat each other like fragile things, was something they had never learned. But they did now. They could learn, they could adapt; had they not proved themselves to be among the best?

They had never been torn apart, they realized. Only become toxic to each other, like cells that reject one another with a small hiccup in the coding of DNA. Since that misty morning, they had been linked together. They had never lost one another, only lost sight.

No one knew when the fixing would be done. Perhaps it already was and there was no need to lie on Amelia's back porch in the tepid summer heat, tracing constellations with their fingertips and silently mouthing the names. Perhaps everything was healed and done, so there was no need to huddle together walking along the Volga River, watching the snow catch in blonde eyelashes. It was entirely possible things were fully mended and then, it was hardly required to corner her after a meeting, hands brushing, to check on her.

But if she was happy to keep silent on that account, there would be no protests.


	2. Nature & Weather

"Are you sure we're going the right direction?" Margot looked around the trees as they tromped through the woods. Afternoon light filtered through the light green leaves of the trees, fresh spring growth that made the whole forest seem alive. But nature and Margot had never been _sympatico_ and her brand new hiking boots were starting to rub her feet the wrong way.

"I'm sure!" Angelique had been the one to suggest the idea in the first place; she loved all things outdoorsy and anything that involved "communing with nature". They couldn't be further apart in that aspect; Margot's idea of a pleasant weekend involved being at home with a nice cup of coffee, a good drama and maybe a shopping trip. But Angelique had proposed the camping trip with those wide, chocolate eyes and the thrusting lower lip that made it impossible to refuse her. And so here they were, and Margot swore she smelled rain in the air.

She gave a noncommittal sound to indicate she'd heard Angelique, and lapsed back into silence. Her cousin, Francis, had laughed himself silly when she told him she was going camping on uncharted campgrounds with Angelique, who, for all her enthusiasm, didn't always plan well.

"We're getting close now," Angelique told her, checking the map that she'd marked. "We just have to find a good flat spot!" She turned back to smile at Margot and she relaxed a little, reminding herself it'd be fun to be away the whole weekend with Angelique. She nodded and continued to follow along behind her girlfriend.

Sure enough, they reached what Angelique proclaimed as "the spot" fifteen or so minutes later and were able to put down their weighty backpacks.

"This is a good spot to set up the tent," Angelique declared, opening the tent bag she'd brought with to pull out a brown tarp and spread it over the ground.

"Can you hand me the mallet?" Margot unhooked it from her backpack and brought it over to Angelique so she could pound the stakes in. When the tarp was nailed down, she got out the tent.

"Are there any instructions for this thing?" Margot asked as Angelique turned the pile of fabric this way and that until she figured out where the door was.  
"We don't need those!" Angelique assured her, waving a hand. "We'll be fine." No, in other words. She hooked the poles together and thrust one through the top sleeve towards Margot. "Here, grab it!"

"It's too high!" Margot protested, reaching up towards the pole. Angelique tried to angle it down and nearly hit Margot in the face with it. "Careful!" She caught it. "What do I do with it?"

"Stick it through your side of the sleeve!" Angelique said.

"Which part is—?" The rest of the tent assembly went much the same way, but eventually they had the thing up and standing.

"There!" Angelique stood back and rested her hands on her hips, looking quite proud of herself. She wore olive green shorts with big pockets on the sides and a red-and-black checkered shirt over a white tank top. Her hair was pulled back in its usual pigtails. She looked perfectly suited to this, Margot though. In contrast, she, Margot, was wearing all-new stuff she had bought only for this trip. She did look stylish, as always, but not so made for camping.

"Now what?" Margot asked, looking to her expert.

"Let's set up the beds and then we can get a fire pit made," she decided, grabbing her bag to move it into the tent.

"Alright." She followed Angelique's lead and they spread out their blankets and sleeping bags inside. It looked sort of comfortable, Margot thought. Maybe sleeping on the ground wouldn't be so bad.

When that was done, Angelique went around and gathered up enough good-sized rocks to make a fire pit and then started adding wood. Margot mostly watched her, not sure if she should be helping.

"What now?" she asked when it looked like Angelique was almost done.

"Now we look around!" the Seychelloise said brightly. Margot looked slightly wary, but Angelique was so eager, it was hard not to get caught up in her drive. They re-donned their much lighter packs and Angelique took Margot's hand to lead them off.

They spent the rest of the day exploring the woods around their little campsite. Angelique pointed out various birds, animals and plans, rattling off little facts about all the ones she knew. After a few hours, evening began to fall and Margot was getting tired. She wasn't used to all this walking and she could only appreciate so much nature at once, though she didn't want to recommend they go back, since Angelique was so obviously enjoying herself. Angelique suggested they go back as evening came on though, because she didn't want to start cooking in the dark.

So they trooped back to the campsite and Margot crouched down to watch Angelique struggle with lighting the fire for several minutes. When she had it going, she fished out their dinner from the small cooler she'd brought up with them and got to work. As night descended, the only light came from their fire. A cloud cover above hid the stars and after they'd finished their meal and were sharing sparse conversation as they gazed into the almost hypnotic snapping and crackling of the fire, light rain began to fall. Margot looked up.

"Rats, I'd hoped it would stay clear," Angelique said. "Oh, well." She looked over at Margot, who was still looking skeptically up at the sky. "You want to go inside?" she asked, somewhat amused. She knew camping was not Margot's first choice in activities, but she was hoping to show her a good time anyway and so far it seemed to be going well. Margot gave a little nod and Angelique waved her ahead. "I'll get the fire, you go into the tent and make sure everything's ready!"

Margot crawled inside and stripped down to just her underwear before crawling into her sleeping bag. Angelique said this was the best way to go, because it ensured the bag had optimal access to her body heat in order to reflect it back. Plus they didn't have room to bring pajamas along with all their other stuff. Angelique joined her once she'd put out the fire and Margot watched the fine line of her back as she arched her arms over her head, wriggling out of her shirt, and the slim curve of her hips as she slid her shorts off and crawled into her own sleeping bag. Margot clumsily inched herself over to Angelique when they were both settled. Angelique draped a blanket over them and they unzipped their sleeping bags enough that they could cuddle somewhat beneath the blanket.

Angelique's fingers lazily stroked Margot's hair, freed from its braid, while the Monacan rested her head on Angelique's chest.

"What do you think so far?" Angelique asked. "Completely awful?"

"No," Margot replied, reaching an arm over Angelique's warm stomach. "This is a lovely spot, I can't deny that." And the ground wasn't terribly comfortable, but she did have Angelique to cuddle with and the blankets to keep warm.

"Good." Angelique smiled in the darkness and kissed the top of Margot's head.

"Although I'm sure the cooking is nothing compared to what you're used to!"

"I imagine I'll live," Margot said, closing her eyes and settling her head more comfortably on Angelique's chest.

"I hope so!" Angelique exclaimed. "I'd hate to have to come back and tell your parents and Francis I killed you with camping!"

"I'm quite sure they wouldn't be surprised in the least," Margot responded. Angelique snickered and rubbed Margot's back with her hand.

"I'd still rather have no deaths," she said. "It is supposed to be fun, after all!" She yawned and her hand came to rest on Margot's side. "Tomorrow we'll do other fun things," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"Goodnight," Margot said sleepily, brushing her lips over Angelique's chest in the semblance of a kiss.

"Goodnight," she replied around another yawn. The rain had begun to come down harder while they were talking and seemed loud to Margot, against the fabric of the tent. Angelique didn't seem bothered though and even if she couldn't easily get to sleep, Margot was lulled into a peaceful state of rest, snuggled up to her girlfriend with the sound of rain against the leaves outside.  
It rained all night and in the morning, the grass was finely dewed. Margot woke first and, keeping her sleeping bag wrapped tightly around her in the morning chill, unzipped the tent to peek out.

"How's the weather?" asked a slurred voice from behind her.

"It's cleared up," Margot said, looking at the sun filtering through the leaves to make the dewdrops sparkle on the emerald grass.

"Goodie." Angelique yawned and rolled about on the tent floor, but didn't get up. Margot unzipped the door the rest of the way.

"Here, take a look."

"Look at that!" Angelique exclaimed with a faint smile. "Isn't it beautiful?" Margot lay back down to join Angie and kissed her neck.

"Magnificent," she sighed, pulling Angelique close to her again. The brunette giggled lightly and turned to give Margot a kiss. She returned it happily, never one to turn down early morning loving.

"We were going to go hiking again today," Angelique reminded her when she finally managed to break off the kiss.

"We have plenty of time," Margot pointed out, starting to pepper Angelique's chest with kisses. The young woman sighed and shifted in her sleeping bag, but didn't dislodge the blonde. "It's still early." She moved up to kiss Angelique again.

"Well…we _are_ on vacation…" Angelique's fingers threaded through Margot's hair, unkempt and unbrushed, far from her usual poised elegance. It was somehow attractive.

"Precisely," Margot agreed, one hand rubbing slow circles on Angelique's stomach while her kisses made an appearance at Angelique's neck. The early morning sun threw a speckled light on their blankets through the open tent door.

"I suppose the delay won't throw off our schedule _too_ badly," Angelique said with a note of teasing in her voice, lifting Margot's head to kiss her deeper, nice and slow.

"Excellent," Margot breathed, burying her face in Angelique's neck to continue.


	3. Dance & Movement

Annaliese and Elizabeta met through dancing.

It was at a party, some fancy people party that Elizabeta had only been invited to because she was friends with some girl who's original guest couldn't come. She stood out sorely among the Austrian upper class and her accented German didn't help. So when she wasn't dancing with the younger boys to make them feel included and have some fun, she was hanging around the sidelines helping herself to refreshments. While she was standing by a tall, arching French window, she noticed Annaliese.

The elegant-looking brunette was also hanging back from the party, a glass of champagne pinched between two fingers, watching the dancers from over the rims of her spectacles. She was dressed in white and lavender, a beautiful combination with her light skin and dark hair. Elizabeta realized she hadn't seen this girl on the dance floor all night and she wondered why.

It was only later she would learn that Annaliese had only recently gotten out of a wheelchair from a serious injury, and was uncertain about her ability to dance, so was opting to watch rather than join. At the time, all that had mattered was getting her to dance.

"Not one for dancing?" she remarked, strolling up to Annaliese. Dark blue eyes flicked to their corners to look Elizabeta over briefly.

"…not today," she intoned, taking a sip from her champagne. It felt odd for Elizabeta, to be the one taking drinks instead of serving them.

"Waiting for someone?" Elizabeta guessed. Perhaps she had some beau she was waiting on to dance with.

"No," she said with a slight shake of her head. Her eyes remained on the dancers, not looking over at the girl talking to her. Only further intrigued by this distance, Elizabeta plowed on.

"Care to dance with me then?" She brushed the crumbs from a small cake off her fingers and held her hand out to the Austrian. Annaliese finally deigned to look at her fully, somewhat surprised at the offer and almost impressed by the audacity. For a moment she was silent and Elizabeta began to wonder if she was just going to stare at her until she gave up and walked away.

"…why not?" she said at last, setting her champagne aside and taking Elizabeta's proffered hand. An improper grin split Elizabeta's face at her success and she led Annaliese out onto the floor. "Slowly though," she cautioned. "I don't care for those fast dances." And she didn't feel nearly up to doing one of those. After a moment or two of awkward fumbling, Elizabeta took the man's part and began to waltz them around.

"I'm Elizabeta," she said with a littler smile. The girl was wearing white gloves to match her dress; the fine material of them pressed against Elizabeta's hand made her think they must have been very pricey.

"Annaliese Edelstein," the dark-haired girl returned the greeting.

"Oh! Your father…isn't he famous for something?" Elizabeta received information on the court from her richy-rich friend, but she rarely remembered it, but she was certain she'd heard the name Edelstein before.

"He's a classical composer," Annaliese said, her voice remaining perfectly level even as Elizabeta's rose and fell, fluctuating in mood and intensity. She was almost like a glass sculpture, Elizabeta thought. Impeccably cool and even, impossible to ruffle.

"Oh, that's nice," Elizabeta said with another small smile. "Do you like classical music?"

"I love it," came the reply, slightly breathy. Elizabeta saw a flash of something in Annaliese's eyes; passion, perhaps?

"Do you play instruments as well?" the Hungarian asked, genuinely interested in learning more about this girl.

"I do," she said. "Primarily piano and violin, but others as well."

"That's great! I can't play any myself," Elizabeta said breezily. "I do love to dance though!"

"Is that so?" Annaliese asked somewhat pointedly, wincing as Elizabeta stepped on her foot.

"Oh! Sorry," she apologized. "Not this kind of dancing, I mean. The f—faster kind," she corrected herself, deciding it probably wasn't polite to call it 'the fun kind' when she'd been invited to this party. Sure she was rough around the edges compared to the rest of the guests, but she wasn't going to be _rude_ if she could help it. Annaliese's eyes looked over her shoulder, taking a look at what everyone else was doing.

"I prefer the slow ones," she commented quietly, returning her hooded gaze to Elizabeta's face. She was a couple inches shorter and had to look up slightly to Elizabeta.

"Those can be alright too," Elizabeta allowed. "If you have the right partner." Her eyes never left Annaliese's. She thought—she swore—she saw the lightest touch of color enter the Austrian girl's face and her eyes moved away. Trying to hide another smile, she continued to move them slowly around the edges of the dance floor.

They danced until Annaliese said she was tired and then they retreated back to the sides of the room to watch.

"Aren't you go to go dance some more?" Annaliese asked as they enjoyed another drink.

"No. I'm having a good time right here," she said, giving Annaliese a warm, friendly look. She'd rather sit here and talk with the Edelstein heiress than bumble around the dance floor with some boy she wasn't really interested in. Annaliese's expression didn't change, but her face seemed to soften and her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"So you like classical music," Elizabeta said. "Do you have favorite artists?" She didn't frankly know much about classical music, aside from that it sounded pretty, but she'd like to hear Annaliese talk about it; it obviously interested in her.

That was the first glimpse of real energy and enthusiasm she saw in Annaliese. The glow from earlier came back into her eyes as she gushed about this composer and that musician and derided this song and that conducting technique. It was definitely her field. Elizabeta was happy to just sit back and listen to her; her face came alive talking about music and Elizabeta marked "cold" off the list of things that might describe Annaliese.

Shy, she came to know, came closer to describing her. Annaliese was just not terribly social and what, in her, was awkwardness and social unease, came off as coolness and aloofness. But that was alright, because Elizabeta was open and boisterous and more than willing to get to work cracking this beautiful nut right open.

And eventually, she did.

It made sense, that, having met through dancing, it became a mode of expression for them. Elizabeta became more adept at the slow dances, though she still preferred the fast ones, and Annaliese learned how to dance the folk dances, though she'd always favor the slow ones.

Still, it was something they both loved and enjoyed; dancing slowly around their house now, to the tune of old music playing on the stereo, it was easy to remember that first meeting at the party.

"I thought you were awfully elegant," Elizabeta said quietly in Annaliese's ear, a light expression on her face. Her arm sat comfortably around Annaliese's waist and the musician's dark head rested against her shoulder.

"I am," Annaliese asserted.

"Sometimes you are," Elizabeta chuckled, rubbing Annaliese's side lightly. "Other times…" she trailed off, leaving the end of that sentence open.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Annaliese demanded, but her voice wasn't raised; their slow waltzing had lulled her into a sleepy state and she couldn't bring herself to rouse enough to be truly offended.

"It means I caught you stealing pieces of cake before dinner last week," Elizabeta reminded her.

"…that doesn't mean anything," Annaliese said dismissively. Elizabeta shook her head slightly and gave Annaliese a squeeze.

"Of course not," she said, entertained as always by Annaliese's refusal to acknowledge her own instances of unladylike behavior. She was quite good at eliminating anything from her memory that would suggest anything but the most noble of demeanors on her part.

Annaliese didn't reply and Elizabeta pressed her cheek against the top of Annaliese's head.

"Are you ready to go to bed?" she asked gently.

"Not just yet," she murmured, shaking her head and pressing a little closer to Elizabeta. Her favorite times were dancing with her wife like this. It was so relaxing and peaceful. Elizabeta continued to lead them around in tiny circles for a while longer before she figured she better end this before Annaliese fell asleep on her feet.

"Come on, bed time," she said firmly, nudging Annaliese. She broke away from Annaliese and shut off the stereo. The Austrian didn't protest, just yawned and stretched her arms up over her head, making for the stairs. Elizabeta kissed Annaliese and followed her upstairs to snuggle comfortably in their bed.

How glad she was she'd endured that tedious party so many years ago!


	4. Home & Warmth

"Hey, get back here!" Amelia yelled as she staggered to her feet, waving a fist. "I'm not finished with you yet!" When there was no response and the red back continued to disappear through the crowd of students, she added, "Asshole! Yeah, you better run! Next time I'll bazooka you right into confetti!"

"Amelia!" Sakura's strained voice reached through the crowd as she tried to weasel her way through the students to the furious girl. "Amelia, stop!" The blonde turned and gave Sakura a lopsided grin as she finally burst through the wall of students into the center of the circle. "Amelia." She looked gravely concerned. "Let it go."

"He called you names," Amelia reminded her, sobering up at once, with a look far darker than usually seen on her face.

"I'll live," Sakura assured her, putting a light hand on Amelia's arm. The American wiped the blood off her mouth with the back of her hand.

"They shouldn't be able to do that," she said, spitting a red-tinged wad of spit onto the ground. "They're bastards, every one of them."

"It's not the first time," Sakura pointed out gently. "I'll be fine, Amelia, really." She gave the girl a light nudge towards the school. "We should clean you up a bit." They broke through the crowd of students, who began to disperse since the after-school fight was over.

"Rotten sons of bitches," Amelia grumbled, allowing herself to be led away. "What's wrong with those stupid transphobes anyway? It's not like we're bothering anyone!"

"Some people are raised full of hate," Sakura murmured. She took Amelia into the bathroom and wetted a paper towel to clean the blood and dirt off her face. In addition to her fighting wounds, she'd received copious scratches from the rough concrete they'd been fighting on.

"Yeah well, they better keep it to themselves," Amelia said. "Especially around me. I like you just the way you are!" She didn't say anything about herself, though Sakura knew insults towards her stung Amelia not only because of the insult to someone she cared about, but because of the similarity of their situations. She gave Sakura a look one part mulish refusal to let anyone speak badly of them and one part hurt over the insult on Sakura's part.

The other girl said nothing, but kept working on cleaning Amelia up, sure to get her scraped-up knees, which had gotten a bit of a beating owing to Amelia wearing shorts.

"My grandmother has promised to make sweet dumplings this afternoon," Sakura changed the subject after a few moments of silence. She dabbed lightly at Amelia's cut lip. "You should come over."

"Really?" Amelia's face split into a grin and blood welled up on the cut as she stretched it. "I'm there, girl! Your grandmother makes the best food ever!"

"I'm sure she'd be glad to hear it," Sakura said with a little smile as she wiped Amelia's forehead off. They shared a smile and then Amelia slid off the sink and placed a faint kiss on Sakura's forehead.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand then," she said, heading for the door. She held it open for her girlfriend and they made their way to Sakura's house. Amelia made sure to grab her backpack from where she'd tossed it aside to fight on the way by.

At the Honda residence, Sakura's aging grandmother greeted them and Amelia proudly told her about how she'd beaten up the bully from school. It wasn't that Amelia's parents weren't accepting (or at least, they weren't _not_ accepting), but they didn't really understand and they asked a lot of questions sometimes. Sakura's grandmother didn't do that; she just accepted the girls for who they were and said she was lucky to have a beautiful granddaughter.

"The food will be ready in a little while," she told them as they left their shoes and backpacks by the door.

"Great!" Amelia smiled brightly at her before following Sakura into the living room. They set up Super Mario Smash Brothers on the old Nintendo and go to work pounding on each other. Sakura's phone buzzed partway through the third game and she let Amelia battle the CPU players while she checked it. "Who's that?" Amelia asked as she smashed the buttons on the controller.

"Marianne," Sakura said. "She wants to know if you're up for a Madoka Magica marathon this weekend."

"Hell-fucking-yeah I am," Amelia declared as she knocked one CPU player out of the game with a hiss of triumph. "Her parents ditch the apartment again?"

"Yes," Sakura replied, checking the text. "I'll ask her what time she wants us over. She does like her beauty sleep."

"Not like she needs it," Amelia snorted. Victory flashed across the screen and Amelia gave a triumphant smirk. "Ha. I kick ass at this game." She started another level.

"She wants you to bring the make-up you bought last week as well," Sakura added as Marianne texted her back. "She'll do make-overs."

"Kay, I'll have it," Amelia assured, intently focused on defeating Bowser.  
Sakura put her phone aside and picked her controller up again to give Amelia a run for her money. After a few more games, Amelia started to sink to the floor until she was laying on her side with her head in Sakura's lap. The Japanese paused her game after a moment and started to brush her hand over Amelia's unruly blonde curls, which she'd grown out over the summer. "I'm lucky to have a girlfriend like you," Amelia sighed, closing her eyes to bask in the attention.

"We're lucky to have each other," Sakura countered, giving Amelia's shoulder a little squeeze.

"We are," Amelia agreed, settling herself more comfortably on the floor. They passed a few moments in rare silence before Sakura, surprisingly, broke it.

"I had…seen some new styles of braiding on the internet," she began cautiously, in a way that meant she was slightly nervous. "I could try to give you one, if you like. If you don't, that's fine."

"Of course I do!" Amelia sat up so quickly Sakura had to jerk back to keep from getting clocked with Amelia's head. "Let's do it!" She beamed at Sakura and the young woman remembered why she loved spending time with Amelia. It was so hard not to be in a good mood around her.

Sakura brought up the webpage on her laptop, which she set on the floor next to her, and Amelia chose a playlist from 8tracks.

"All I need in this life of sin is me and my girlfriend," she sang along with the music, off-key, but adorable all the same, in Sakura's opinion. "Down to ride till the happy end, is me and my girlfriend!"

The Japanese girl was very gentle with Amelia's hair, even though Amelia assured her she wouldn't hurt her by jerking through the knots. When it was all brushed out, she got to work braiding, doing her best to copy the steps shown online.

"Say, did Mari tell you if she's coming to KumoriCon?" Amelia asked, still trying to play Smash Brothers while Sakura braided her hair. Occasionally, Sakura had to hold her still to remind her not to move around.

"She hasn't yet, but I'm sure she will," Sakura said. "I almost have her magical girl costume ready. You know how much she loves them."

"Sweet. Who are you doing for that one again?" she asked.

"Akane Tsunamori and maybe Sakura from Naruto, depending on how I feel…" she said.

"Ah, right! You make an awesome Inspector," Amelia joked. "I think I'm going to do Kyoko for that one. I want to do Harley Quinn too, but I haven't gotten the costume finished yet. You want me to bring Hinata?"

"If you want to. Okay, it's finished," Sakura said when she'd pinned the last stray bit of hair in place with a bobby pin. "You can go look in the mirror." She pointed to one hanging on the wall. Amelia hopped to her feet and trotted over to the mirror. "What do you think…?"

"Dang, Sakura!" She turned from side to side to admire the new look. "You're good at this stuff! How do I look?" She turned to grin at Sakura, who glanced away, a faint flush on her cheeks.

"Very nice, Amelia," she said, not meeting her girlfriend's bright blue gaze. "Beautiful," she added. Sakura wasn't naturally an overly-affectionate person, but she knew Amelia thrived on that kind of thing and they were tweaking their balance—Amelia had restrained herself from a good deal of physical affection, especially in the beginning, for Sakura's comfort, and Sakura was trying to be more verbally affectionate to make up for the lack of touching.

"You look beautiful too, babe," Amelia said, going over to help Sakura to her feet and wrap an arm around her waist. "I'm just the luckiest girl in the world. Can I give you a kiss?" Sakura nodded, again averting her eyes. Amelia leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips and Sakura raised her hands to rest them weightlessly on Amelia's hips. When Amelia drew back, they stayed there for a moment, teenager nervousness taking over in the way they avoided each other's eyes and giggled breathlessly.

It was then that Sakura's grandmother called to them that the dumplings were ready.

"Hot dog!" Amelia broke away with a grin and scampered into the kitchen. Sakura spared a gentle smile at her departing girlfriend before following after her to help herself to some of the dumplings.

AN:

1\. In case it wasn't obvious in the narrative, both Amelia and Sakura are trans girls

2\. Marianne is fem!France (fem!Otaku trio ftw)

3\. The song Amelia is singing is "Girlfriend" by Icona Pop which is an adorable song


	5. Travel & Adventure

For Emma, life was nothing but monotonous tedium; the same thing day after day after day. In the beginning it hadn't been so bad; when she was younger, she could make her own games to entertain herself. But the older she got, the harder it got to distract herself that way, even with the word games she played in her mind. She was bored and that was undeniable. She didn't want for much, except something to do.

She'd been in this tower almost as long as she could remember. And she didn't think she was ever going to get to leave.

Until the Last Knight came. The Last Knight to Try to Free the Princess. She remembered being a princess, and she had a small crown, but she didn't know anything about the kingdom where she'd been born and had only the haziest memories of the place. The only one she'd talked to in years was the dragon that spent its days curled around her tower, scorching anyone who came to rescue her. Emma wasn't even sure she warranted rescuing; no one was actively hurting her, after all. Was her freedom really worth someone's life?

The dragon wasn't awfully nice. It never said much to Emma and if she tried to climb out the window, or leaned too far it, it would swat at her to keep her inside. She had thought once, she might scale the tower to go play in the snow falling outside, but the dragon had put an end to that. So she just watched the soft flakes falling from her window, populating her room with melancholy sighs. It rarely snowed here; would she ever get the chance to feel it under her feet? She wanted to think so, but common sense said not.

The Last Knight was wonderfully clever though. Emma had seen him approach the front gate, as so many had before. There wasn't even a gate anymore; it had long since been destroyed and flung far off, leaving just a gaping space between points in the wall. The Last Knight was a tad short and not very broad, but seeing one of them show up was always something interesting for Emma—it was the closest she got to human interaction. So she approached the window to watch as always. The field of bones and broken swords that littered the courtyard couldn't have been comforting to the Last Knight, but he didn't waver in his resolve (as far as Emma could tell).

He raised his sword towards the dragon, who reared its long, muscular neck and snarled. The battle began, for the umpteenth time. Emma silently cheered for the knight, but somehow, she couldn't help feeling regretful that the dragon would have to die for her freedom. She supposed it was only natural to grow attached to the only living thing she had contact with, even if it was her jailer. She never saw who brought her food—maybe it was the dragon, for all she knew. It never spoke, so she couldn't be sure.

What the Last Knight lacked in pure brawn, he made up for with speed. Emma's eyes widened as she watched him dart two and fro, weaving between the dragon's legs and stabbing out at the most sensitive parts of the beast he could reach. She had expected this knight to be roasted in no time, but he was actually putting up a fight! She gripped the stone window sill, watching with tiny, short breaths.

The dragon retaliated with flame and foot, trying to charbroil the knight or crush him beneath a massive paw. It stomped so much the knickknacks on Emma's shelves—things that had been there since she arrived—rattled about. Normally she might've taken them down to assure they didn't get broken, but she was too engrossed in the fight right now to worry about trivial things like those.

The dragon, leaning over, caught the knight with a backhand and sent him flying into one of the courtyard walls, where he slumped to the ground. Caught up in the excitement, Emma couldn't help but shriek and cover her mouth. The dragon raised its head again to finish off the night, but suddenly, he was on his feet again and charging towards the beast. Cowed by the sudden, head-on charge, the dragon shuffled backwards and the knight lunged forward, right off the ground, plunging his sword into the dragon's chest. It wasn't high enough to reach the heart, but the creature still howled in agony, thrashing about and shaking the knight off, still clutching his sword.

The dragon's mighty feet hammered the earth and the knight struggled to keep his footing. He ran for the tower and kicked the door open, taking shelter inside. The lock on it had been broken a long time ago from the dragon throwing bodies against the door, though no one had ever made it inside more than slightly alive.

The sound of thumping on the steps made Emma jerk her head towards the door with massive eyes as it suddenly struck her that the knight was inside her tower now—coming for her. For all its fearsomeness, she found herself preferring the familiar danger of the dragon to the man now headed for her door. She backed up against the wall, her heart beating so hard in her chest it felt like it might burst out; her throat closed up with anxiety, her legs too shaky to run—even though, if she could've, she had nowhere to go.

There was a rattling at the door, a clanging, a grunting, and it burst open to reveal the Last Knight in full armor. Emma's eyes scanned the room frantically and she grabbed the only thing she could—the candle holder, with half a candle melted into it—and brandished it at him.

"S-stay back!" she cried. "Don't come any closer! I'm a princess!" She wasn't sure that meant anything to this knight, but she tried it anyway.

"You're going to be a roasted princess if you don't let me take care of that dragon," came the knight's muffled voice from beneath his metal visor. He approached and Emma darted away, but the knight made for the window, not for her. "Hey, you! Come and get me!" he shouted, placing a foot on the window sill. He struck an impressive figure, Emma thought, even in her fear. The knight climbed through the window and jumped. Emma stifled another scream and ran to the window to look. Had he just killed himself?

But no! The knight had leaped out onto the head of the dragon, his legs wrapped as much around the serpentine neck of the monster as possible while the dragon bucked and writhed, trying to fling him off. The Last Knight raised his sword and, when he had a shot, plunged it into the dragon's neck, just at the top of the spine. The dragon screamed so that Emma covered her ears, trying to block out the piercing wail that seemed to echo around the landscape that surrounded them. The dragon continued to thrash about for a moment or two, and then began to stagger and stumble about until it sank to the ground.  
Emma was nearly falling out the window she was leaning so far out to see what was happening. The Last Knight was thrown as the dragon fell to the ground, but hurried back towards the tower to speak to Emma.

"Come down, princess!" he shouted, lifting his visor to speak. "Let's go!"

"Go where?" Emma cried, straining her ears to make sense of his words, which sounded faint from so far away.

"Home!" the Last Knight replied. "I'm here to take you home!" When Emma didn't move, the knight came to the base of the tower again and a few moments later he emerged into her room again. "Come, princess, we must go now," he urged. "When the warlock discovers you are gone, he will send a hundred dragons' fury!" That jolted Emma into action. She gathered a few meager possessions into a bag and the knight grabbed her hand, leading her down the steps. Her legs felt weak; she wasn't used to this kind of exercise and there were so many steps!

Eventually they emerged into the sunlight and Emma was dazzled by all of it; she felt lightheaded with all the open air, but a touch of movement at the corner of her eyes made her gasp.

"Look out!" She threw herself at the knight and he, for a split second, saw what she had and wrapped an arm around her to pull her to the ground with him.

The dragon's short burst of flame singed the tower wall, but no more. The dying beast tried in vain to get to its feet, and the Last Knight charged it again, worrying the scales with his sword tip until he could get out of its field of vision to cleave the head off entirely. Emma felt a curious sadness.

She approached the body of the dragon and, hesitantly, laid a hand on the hide of the dragon. It was warm, almost hot, and the scales were smooth beneath her hand.

"Poor thing," she murmured. "I'm not so sure he was a bad fellow."

"He was keeping you captive, wasn't he?" the Last Knight asked. He was breathing heavily, but Emma was still amazed at his performance. She had never seen anyone do so well before—indeed, no one had defeated the dragon before this man! She would have to see him rewarded when she returned home, assuming she was allowed to do that sort of thing.

"Yes, but…well, maybe it wasn't all his fault," she said, keeping her eyes away from the bloody stump of his neck. The knight began to walk towards the gate and whistled. A horse approached and Emma looked over to the knight. "What now?" she asked.

The knight took off his helmet and—!

It wasn't a man at all! It was a woman, a beautiful woman. Her long chestnut hair was braided and pinned tightly to her head, her light skin smirched with soot from her fight with the dragon. She was unquestionably the most amazing thing Emma had ever seen and she was so glad it was this knight who had saved her.

"Now I take you home," she said, looking back at the astonished princess. "So you can marry the prince of the neighboring kingdom."

"A prince?" Emma echoed. She shook her head and drew her hand away from the cooling carcass of the dragon. "Who are you?"

"Elizabeta Hèdervàry, Your Grace," the knight said, dropping to one knee and pressing an arm over her chest, the fist above her heart. Emma blinked in surprise; she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. She didn't feel like Hèdervàry ought to be bowing to her; she was the one who had defeated the dragon.

"Er—rise, good…knight," she said, uncertain if she ought to call Hèdervàry 'sir'.

"Thank you for the rescue." She gave a slight curtsey.

"Of course, Your Grace," Hèdervàry said, raising her head to look up at Emma before getting to her feet. "Anyone would be glad to serve the princess of the realm." She tucked her helmet under one arm.

"This prince…what do you know about him?" Emma asked, approaching.

"Not much, I'm afraid," Hèdervàry said. "I've never met him. I only know that his kingdom is wealthy."

"Perhaps…we could take the long way back," Emma suggested, meeting Hèdervàry's dark green eyes and feeling a flutter in her chest. Hèdervàry looked her up and down and then a slight smile curved her lips up.

"As you wish, Your Grace," she allowed graciously. She brought the horse over and gave Emma a hand up, swinging herself up behind. "I only have the one horse, you'll have to forgive me," she apologized. But Emma wasn't listening; she was looking around at the grassy hills that stretched out around them, the big blue sky and the great wide world. She drew a deep breath and beamed in awe. It took her several moments to come to.

"Show me the world," she breathed, craning her neck to look back at Hèdervàry. "I want to see everything!" Hèdervàry's chest was solid against her back, supportive. Despite the quivering of fear in her chest at suddenly being out in the open, she felt safe with this woman.

"As you command, Your Grace," Hèdervàry said, a little smile spreading across her face as she reached around Emma to take the reins. "Whatever you command."

In case you wondered they totally fall in love on the way back and decide screw they kingdom we're gonna do what we want


	6. Memories & Letters

_Plié, plié, pirouette, leap, allegro, allegro._

Natalya loved to dance. Dancing was everything to her; it had been for nearly as long as she remembered. She had almost destroyed herself to get where she was; she had practiced until her toenails split and her tendons strained and her father threatened to pull her out of the program.

When she was eleven, she had left home to go to a ballet school in Russia. She had trained relentlessly and she knew she was never going to let anything get in her way. While her peers engaged in wild sex and parties, she trained. The only thing she ever indulged in was the occasional drug trip and copious amounts of vodka. And nothing ever distracted her.

Until she met Marianne.

_Pirouette, pirouette, pirouette, allegro, faster, faster, faster!_

With all the bright lights blazing in the faces of the dancers, it was impossible to see any details of the audience watching them. She hadn't seen Marianne until she'd gone backstage to change. One of the girls, Svetlana, was busy screaming at someone in one of the changing rooms. She was as emotional and moody as a tornado and her closet stimulant experiments didn't help. She went on and on until another voice joined hers and shortly after, a brunette was expelled from the room.

"Get out!" Svetlana screeched. "I never want to see you again, you stupid French bitch! Get out, get out, get out!" A ballet slipped went flying through the doorway as the door closed again. The woman, who had done her best to plead with Svetlana, straightened up and smoothed her dress down. It took her only seconds to recover her poise and when she looked up and met Natalya's eyes, it felt like someone had socked the Belorussian in the gut; she forgot how to breathe. The Frenchwoman gave her a brief nod and walked off, but her gaze lingered on Natalya as she walked by.

_Brise, bras croise, fondu, petit saut, grand plie. _

Marianne loved ballerinas. Marianne loved all beautiful things and she held ballet dancers on the pinnacle of human beauty. She was passionate and gorgeous and loving and so full of _life_. It was as if she breathed life into parts of Natalya that had died without her ever knowing.

She whispered private things in Natalya's ear when they sat together at dinner with the rest of the group. She let her hand rest over Natalya's on her leg and murmured in her ear how beautiful she was, and how amazing her dancing was, and this and that until the rest of the world seemed to fade away and there was nothing but her and her words.

"You're a radiant moon," Marianne whispered. "Your eyes are sapphires and your dance…are you quite sure you're not a siren? I couldn't look away from you if I tried."

"Stop it," Natalya said. "You sound like a moron." But she never pushed Marianne away and looked rather irritated if she thought Marianne wasn't paying enough attention to her. But that was rarely an issue; Marianne was attentive.

Natalya loved her.

Natalya loved her with all the intensity that she was capable of; there were very few things Natalya did half-heartedly and this was certainly not one of them. Natalya had never loved anyone before in her life, but she knew she loved Marianne.

When Marianne lay her back on the bed, her dark hair let down around her shoulders, her eyes half-lidded and fixed only on Natalya, she felt like the most powerful person in the world. Sometimes she taunted Marianne with nary a change in her cold, indifferent expression, just to make Marianne whine about how much she wanted Natalya. If this incredible woman could want her, she HAD to be the most powerful person in the world.

_Ouvert, jete, glissade, revoltade, jete, batterie._

Spinning, twirling, the room whirling about her, her memories painted on the wall. They spun too, in shades of black and white and gray. Everything laid out around her for her to look at and examine. Her expression doesn't change.

Marianne liked to play with Natalya's hair. She braided it, pinned it up, ran her fingers through it; when Natalya ate her out, sometimes she pulled it. Marianne showed her how to eat a girl out and good God she was good at it. She tried to put Natalya's hair in a bun for dance, but she never did it tight enough, so Natalya re-did it every time.

She also liked to bring Natalya flowers, no matter how many times Natalya mentioned they were a worthless gift. She kept them all around the house anyway; some of them had been around so long they had dried up and she kept them around as dried flower decorations. Cleaning wasn't always Natalya's strong suit.

For the first time in her life, Natalya questioned her obsession with dance. She began to resent having to cancel dates with Marianne or pull herself away from her lover to practice. She began to be irritated with all the time she had to spend away from Marianne. It was a terrifying idea; she had never before listened to anyone who told her that her fixation was unhealthy.

_Why should I have to choose between the two things in life that make me happy?_ she wondered.

_Jeté, battu, cabriole, waltz, tombe, sissonne. _

The problem with Marianne was how changeable her mood was and how short her attention span.

They went out to dinner. They went out to dinner with the other ballerinas and their lovers, which they often did. Chun-yun, a new dancer from a Chinese school, had joined them. She was quite petite for a dancer, but Natalya had seen her leap incredibly high and her flexibility was some of the most impressive in the company.

Natalya could tell. She was not an overtly affectionate woman, but she watched Marianne so carefully. She knew her movements, she knew every micro-expression and she sat there that night and watched Chun-yun steal Marianne from her.

The battle was over, it was lost. Natalya could tell. She could see it in the way Marianne's eyes were more often on Chun-yun, in the light in her eyes and the way it shifted, in the way her body was angled and the way her hands moved. She had lost her already.

And Natalya wasn't one to sit around waiting for defeat to bite her in the ass. She left Marianne that night. Without an explanation, without questions, without a chance for change. She ended it and kicked Marianne out after the Frenchwoman had brought her to climax, shutting the door in her face.

"Natalya! Natalya, what's wrong?" she had cried. "Open the door! Natalya! What did I do?"

_Retire. Demi point. En pointe. Faille. Adagio. _

Marianne tried to talk to her after that, but Natalya refused her. As powerfully as Natalya had loved her, she was capable of being enormously cold and now Marianne was out of her good graces. It wasn't so much what Marianne had done, but Natalya's own attempts to save herself the pain.

Somehow, she didn't think it had worked.

She didn't know if Marianne had gone on to fuck Chun-yun and date her. She didn't ask. She never spoke to Marianne again. She stopped seeing her around the area, though she wasn't sure if that was because Marianne stopped coming or because Natalya stopped seeing her. It was quite possible for her to willingly close her eyes to things she didn't want to see.

Eventually she was sent back to Moscow to work with a ballet company there and that was the last she thought of Marianne, or she would've liked for that to be the case. But it was close enough.

_A terre._

She brought herself to a rest and took a moment to catch her breath. She slipped her ballet shoes off, put her flats on and headed for the door, slinging her duffle bag over one shoulder. On her way out, she flicked out the lights of the empty room. Time to shower and head home to make dinner.

Five years ago, Natalya had left Marianne and she had never forayed into anything remotely resembling distraction from her work again. Ballet was her life. There was no room for anything else. There never had been.


	7. Valentine's Day & Love

Valentine's Day

Nowhere in all the world, it was thought, had there ever been a pair of gymnasts as competitive as Amelia Jones and Anya Braginskaya. They were born to embody the Cold War, the virulent aggression between the two teams and the relentless drive to beat each other. They watched each other without blinking during competitions and detailed every tiny movement of the other woman's routine so they could have every possible advantage. They cheered at each other's losses and reveled in each other's failures.

Their rivalry didn't stop at the mat either. Off the floor, they were every bit as nasty and cutting to each other as they were on it. More than once their coaches had to separate them for fear they'd come to actual physical violence.

The number of ugly nicknames and biting insults they had for one another was truly impressive and showcased their latent creativity quite well.

It was after one of their biggest competitions that took place every couple of years that things got confusing.

Amelia had marched up to one of the Russian girls' hotel room waving around one of her binders, which had been defiled by a scrawled on hammer and sickle and pounding on the door.

"Braginskaya!" she shouted. "I know this was you! Get out here and fight me, Captain Commie!" The door swung open to reveal the usually poised and collected Russian looking far more disheveled than Amelia had ever seen.

"My favorite lipstick-ed pig!" Anya cried, throwing her arms up. The smell of vodka blasted Amelia in the face. "Come in! Have drink with us!" She flung the door open all the way; two other girls were slouched around the beds with bottles around the tables.

"I don't want to drink with you!" Amelia said, stepping into the room and thrusting the green binder into Anya's face. "I want an answer for this desecration!"

"Have drink!" Anya grabbed her wrist and dragged her over to the beds anyway. "Do not worry about such trivial things." She jerked the binder out of Amelia's hand and tossed it onto one of the twin beds.

"Dammit pinko, I don't want a drink!"

"Tatiana!" Anya grabbed a bottle of vodka from one of the girls who cheered something in Russian. Amelia's ear for Russian wasn't attuned enough (and she wasn't paying enough attention) to decode the slurred words. "Here, drink," she said, thrusting it at Amelia, who just glared. "What is that look for? I am not fighting you now, have drink!"

"Why is the American wench here?" asked the other girl in Russian, looking a bit more confused than irritated.

"She is having a drink," Anya said.

"I am not," Amelia said, crossing her arms. "I am waiting for an explanation about what happened to my binder."

"Don't look so angry, little fish," Anya said. She reached out to pinch Amelia's cheek and the American barely managed to dodge. "It does not suit your pretty face."

"Braginskaya, what the fuck is wrong with you?" she demanded.

"Why are you so angry all the time?" Anya asked.

"I am not angry all the time, you just piss me the hell off!" Amelia retorted, throwing her hands up. "You're so irritating!"

"And you think you are not?" Anya asked, arching her eyebrows.

"Fuck off." Amelia tried to go for her binder, but Anya caught her wrist again.

"You did not answer question," she said, her intense eyes locking on Amelia's sky blue ones.

"I don't have to answer any of your shitty questions," Amelia said rudely, getting up in Anya's face.

"Oh no? And why is that?" Anya asked, that annoying smile tugging at her lips. She didn't move an inch away from Amelia.

"Because I do what I want," she said. "And fuck you, that's why." Anya continued to smile condescendingly at her for a moment and then she grabbed Amelia's face in her hand, brought her in closer and smacked a kiss right on her lips. It took her a moment to jerk away. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded furiously. "You Russians are fucking crazy!" She grabbed her binder off the bed and bailed out, sans explanation, before anything else bizarre and unsettling could go down.

Later that night, she was again hammering on Anya's door and when the Russian opened it, Amelia trapped the blonde's face between her hands, brought her down and kissed her hard before striding back to her room, hoping she could finally get some sleep now.

And that's how things had gotten weird.

Now neither of them knew where they stood. That wasn't the last time they'd kissed either—they both felt guilt over that. There had been more times, backs pressed up against the lockers, leotards sweaty, hasty and hidden. And there had been that other time—the time there was more than kissing. But _that_ threw things so wildly out of whack Amelia preferred never to think of it unless she was lying in bed very late at night in the dark wrapped in privacy.

Now it was Valentine's Day and Amelia was in town for a special two week training session and she wondered if she ought to do something. If _they_ ought to do something. The question was gnawing at her all day the day before and she concluded it was worth a shot. Maybe she could meet with Anya and probe out of the Russian girl wanted to do something.

So she gave Anya a call (she'd had the Russian's number so long now she didn't remember how she'd first gotten it, only that they'd only ever used each other's numbers to call and talk shit to each other about each other).

"Hey, Ruskie, y'oughta come meet me for coffee at Dazbog's," she said. "I wanna talk to you." Reluctantly, Anya agreed.

Amelia arrived first and got herself a black coffee, taking a seat outside to wait for her wary arrival. When Anya showed up, she looked like she was suspicious of walking into a war zone.

"What do you want?" she asked, walking up to the table.

"Have a seat," Amelia said, waving her hand at the open chair across from her.

"What do you want?" Anya repeated. Amelia realized she'd never seen Anya in anything but athletic wear or performance leotards. Now she was wearing some dark pants and a loose, faded pink sweater. A gray messenger back was slung over her shoulder and she clutched at the strap with one hand. Her hair was down and looked neat, rather than that it had just been let out of a bun it had been in for hours. She looked nice.

"Who says I want anything?" Amelia asked. "Take a seat."

"You always want something," Anya said, squinting at her. But she took the proffered seat.

"Get a coffee, it's on me," Amelia said. Anya squinted harder. She didn't ask any more questions though, seeming to gather that Amelia would tell her what was going on when she was ready, and not before. It was really quiet useless trying to make Amelia do something she didn't want to do; the girl was terminally stubborn. Anya ordered herself a coffee and continued to watch Amelia like she might whip a pistol out of her bra at any moment as she drank it. "I thought we should spend the day together or something," Amelia announced. Anya nearly choked.

"What?" she asked, clutching at her chest with one hand as she recovered from her near-choking experience.

"Y'know. Because it's Valentine's Day," Amelia said.

"Russians do not celebrate Valentine's Day," Anya said coldly, narrowing her eyes at Amelia.

"Well Americans do," Amelia said challengingly, leaning against the table to hold Anya's gaze unflinchingly. "And you're with an American."

"And now I am leaving an American," Anya said, getting to her feet and grabbing her coffee.

"What do YOU want?" Amelia called as Anya turned to go.

"What do you mean?" Anya asked, stopping without turning.

"What do you want?" Amelia repeated. "From me? You're all fine and good with shoving me against the wall off the floor, but I try to talk to you casually and you won't have any of it." Anya remained still and silent.

"What do _you_ want?" she asked again, turning to look at Amelia. One of them was going to have to make the first move, Amelia realized. She had tried with the coffee, but it wasn't enough. She stood up.

"I want to do something for Valentine's Day," she said. Anya faced her fully.

"You do?" she asked, looking taken aback by the idea. She had genuinely thought Amelia was trying to pull her leg or lure her into some scenario where she could be taunted.

"No, _duh,_" Amelia said. "I invited you out here, didn't I? You're the one who's treating this like a televised spy trade-off!" Anya glanced away, suddenly feeling like she'd been the one misbehaving.

"What did you want to do?" she asked, still sounding somewhat suspicious. Amelia shrugged.

"I dunno, we could go ice skating," she suggested.

So they did. When they were done skating, they got hot chocolate and then Amelia coaxed Anya back to her room, ostensibly so she could show her pictures of her dog back in America on her computer. The whole day was a battle getting Anya to relax and stop thinking Amelia was going to do something awful to her; it was a little exhausting.

"Here he is," Amelia said, setting the small laptop on Anya's lap. They were sitting on the edge of her hotel bed. "His name is Max!" She flicked through a couple of pictures of a brown and white mutt and then let Anya look through them. She drew back slightly and watched Anya go through the pictures. She couldn't stop herself from the impulse of reaching over and brushing the long satin curtain of Anya's hair away from her face, exposing her neck. The Russian jumped and looked over at her. Amelia's heart was like a drumbeat in her chest. Figuring she was sort of committed, she leaned in and gently kissed Anya. Not clashing, rough, passionate kisses like their usual ones, just soft and light.

Anya held still, but didn't return the kiss. She seemed confused more than anything else. It showed on her face when Amelia drew back, looking intently at the girl's face. For a long moment they just stared at each other, both of them waiting for the other one to say something. Finally, Anya gathered her courage and leaned in to return the kiss. Amelia returned it at once and they kept it chaste and affectionate.

"See…he likes to play with stuffed animals…" Amelia said lamely, pointing at the laptop. Anya closed it and set it aside, then she kissed Amelia again.

"You are such an idiot," Anya told her. "Is cute." She patted Amelia's cheek.

"Hey!" Amelia kicked her shoes off and lay back against the pillows, her long tan legs stretched out beneath her jean shorts. She was fairly tall for a woman, particularly a gymnast, but not as tall as Anya "Don't be an ass any more than you can help, pinko."

"Americans do not like to hear the truth," Anya claimed, turning her head to look at Amelia.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, because the Russians are such a pinnacle of morality and self-control." She laid an arm over the top of the pillows, casually leaving herself open in case Anya wanted to sit with her. When Anya neither looked away nor moved off the bed, Amelia made it more obvious. "Well come on and lie down; it's not often we have this much free time!" Anya gave her a weird look, but after a few moments, she slid off her black boots and lay back with Amelia, who put her arm around Anya. "So, are you my woman now or what?" Anya drove her elbow into Amelia's gut.

"I am no one's woman, and not yours least of all!" she snapped. Amelia, when she was done wheezing from the blow, tried to smile.

"Alright, alright," she agreed, trying to get Anya to lie back against her arm again. "Still my nemesis though." Anya seemed to be content with that and settled back down. Amelia cinched her arm around the Russian again and tugged her closer.

"You are so strange," Anya said. "If you are trying to lure me into something, it will not work!"

"Why are you always so damn suspicious?" Amelia asked in astonishment. "I just want to hang out with you."

"Hang out?" Anya echoed.

"Like this," Amelia said, looking over at Anya. "Without trying to kill each other or knock each other's teeth out with our own."

"Oh." Anya seemed yet again completely blindsided. "Why?"

"Don't you?" Amelia asked, starting to wonder if this was a totally useless exercise and maybe Anya wasn't interested in a real relationship at all. "Or are you really happy with what weird ass thing we've got going on right now?"

Anya didn't respond and Amelia began to feel a chill in her limbs. Then, slowly, Anya slouched down until her head was resting on the front of Amelia's shoulder. She didn't say anything, and Amelia managed to keep herself from babbling. She just tightened her arm around Anya and they sat in silence.

"When are you going back to America?" Anya asked, her accent heavy on the word.

"Next week," Amelia said. "Thursday I think." There was another silence and Amelia thought if she waited enough Anya might say something else.

"Let me take you to dinner," Anya said, in a way that made it sound more like a command than a request.

"Yes'm," Amelia replied with an amused look.

"Good." Anya fell silent and settled herself more comfortably on Amelia's chest. They didn't speak any more for a while, just sat in comfortable silence. It was strangely nice not to be fighting or trying to bite each other's tongues off. Amelia could get used to this. And it seemed, she dearly hoped, that Anya could as well.


End file.
